


Sherlock is Dead.

by vince_noir



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:05:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vince_noir/pseuds/vince_noir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One shot Johnlock. Angsty. TW for references to suicide. I haven't written in a long time, so it's probably not that great.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock is Dead.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katie!](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Katie%21).



> Not Brit-picked, not proofread. A quick gift for my amazing friend Katie.

John Watson limped up the stairs as he carried the groceries, and wondered if Mrs Hudson would take him seriously if he suggested they install a lift. He almost missed the faint sound of a violin coming from the other side of the door. _Oh God, not this again,_ he begged. Closing his eyes, he leaned his forehead against the door and tried to steady his breathing. _Sherlock is dead. Sherlock is dead. Sherlock is dead_. The mantra played through his head in a useless circle.

  
In the beginning, John hadn't taken Sherlock's suicide well, to say the least. He had been alone; he was a social pariah because he still believed in Sherlock. He still thought he could smell coffee in the middle of the night, when he woke up from dreams filled with creamy skin, bright blue eyes, and sarcastic comments. In his nightmares, he saw the same thing, but the skin was stained red, and the eyes were dead; the sarcasm silenced. In the good dreams, he came home and when he opened the door, Sherlock was there, muttering insults towards the Scotland Yard and tying a scarf around his neck before shuffling John back out the door. There was never an explanation for where he had gone, how he survived, or why he had waited so long to come home, but John didn't need any answers in his dreams. He had Sherlock, and that had been enough.

  
Now, he stood at his door, trembling with the anticipation of being letdown again, and starting the cycle again. Inhaling deeply, he twisted the doorknob and gently pushed the door open. He looked around, and saw nothing. He heard nothing. His breathing hitched, and he closed the door behind him, sliding slowly to the ground. Three years, three years, and he still couldn't let go. He had been engaged briefly, but even in death, Sherlock managed to make his fiancee feel like she was playing second fiddle. His hand trembled slightly, and he felt warm tears roll down his cheeks. He closed his eyes, and sat against the door. Misery swallowed him. He began to wish he had been the one to jump off that blasted building. Sherlock was better at burying his feelings; he wouldn't ache the same way John was. Of course, John knew this was selfish thinking and completely untrue at his core, but believing it momentarily made him feel a bit better.

  
He started when he felt a hand on his face. The thumb swept the tears off his cheek. His eyes flew open, and his jaw dropped. He had finally lost it. Maybe he was dead. A pale face with tired eyes and sharp cheekbones looked at him with pain and concern. _Sherlock is dead. Sherlock is dead. Sherlock is dead._ John's mind chanted as he let his hallucination guide him to the couch. "Where have you been?" he finally asked, throat tight.

  
"Untangling Moriarty's web. Working to clear my name." Sherlock's eyes flicked away from John's as he spoke. His voice lowered, "Trying to protect you."

  
"Tr-trying to protect me?" John snapped. "This is protecting me?" _Oh God, I'm fighting with a hallucination. I won't need Mrs Hudson to install a lift now. She'll have me locked up if she hears this._

  
Sherlock grimaced. "No. Should I get you some tea? You look unwell."

  
"You're damn right. I'm unwell! _Hah_!"

  
Sherlock looked searchingly at John, before smirking. "John, I'm not a ghost. You've gotten worse than I thought. You don't believe in that rubbish, do you?" John felt his blood pressure rising, and his fist clenching. "I can prove it to you."

  
The next thing John knew, Sherlock's lips were pressed to his. Warm, eager, and very alive. _Sherlock is dead. Sherlock is dead. Sherlock is dead._ But John gave in anyway. If this was a dream, a hallucination, he wasn't about to waste it. He found his hands tangled in dark curls as he greedily kissed Sherlock back. He pulled back when warm water splashed against his cheek. Sherlock was crying. He was trying his best to hide it, and John thought back to when they were in Baskerville. "Sherlock, hey. Look at me."

  
Sherlock obeyed, except John didn't see his arrogant flatmate or his brilliant best friend. What he saw was raw pain. Sherlock had been suffering as much in the last three years as John had. _That's ridiculous. Sherlock is dead, isn't he?_ He reached out to grab Sherlock's hand and squeezed it. "Talk to me. What happened?" Even in dreams, Sherlock had never answered the most important question before.

  
Sherlock began where John was familiar - Moriarty was framing him, and how he had figured out the Moriarty's grand plan would end in his suicide. He talked about how had sent John away with the fake call from the paramedics so he could meet Moriarty. Sherlock talked about how Moriarty had shot himself in the head. He explained how he faked it, and how Molly had helped him. What he omitted was how this was supposed to protect John.

  
"But why did you fake your death after he died? Wasn't that the end of it? You could have cleared your name anyway."

  
Sherlock looked at John sharply as if surprised John hadn't pieced it together on his own. "If I didn't jump, Moriarty had given orders for three gunmen to fire. One for Mrs Hudson, one for Lestrade, and one for you."

  
John let that sit between them for a moment. "I think I need that cup of tea now."

  
An hour passed as John digested what Sherlock had said. He was still waiting to wake up and be alone again. As much as he dreaded it, he almost found himself wishing he would. The longer he sat there, the more he began to believe that just maybe Sherlock wasn't dead. "Are you going to speak to me again?" Sherlock asked. He had been sitting in his chair across from him, staring at him intensely.

  
"Mmm? Yes. Yes, of course. I'm just waiting to wake up."

  
"I thought we were past this."  
  
"Nope."

  
Sherlock sighed, and grabbed John by the hand, leading him from the living room, through the kitchen, and into what had been his bedroom. This is where Sherlock stopped short. "You kept everything. All my stuff."

  
"Not the thumbs."

  
Sherlock looked around the room in awe. It was messier than he had left it, mostly because John had moved his mess from everywhere else into the room, but it was still his mess, his bed, his periodic table on the wall. "Why did you do this?"

  
"I don't know." John confessed. He really didn't know why. Maybe he had been clinging to the impossible hope that Sherlock would come back. He had begged at his grave for one more magic trick, and he hadn't given up hope that Sherlock would come home.

  
Sherlock hadn't let go of John's hand, and began to pull him to the bed. John acquiesced. Sherlock left gentle kisses along his jaw, and John gasped when his teeth sunk into his lower lip. Sherlock grinned until John had suddenly flipped him over and was fighting to unbutton Sherlock's shirt as fast as he could. Sherlock's fingers were more nimble as he undressed John. He froze when he saw John's torso naked. "Those scars are new."

  
John felt his heartbeat quicken. Sherlock knew what the scars where from. He may have been able to make excuses to other people, but Sherlock would know. "They're a few years old now." His voice was weak.

  
"They weren't there before I-" Sherlock's words faltered. "Is that because of me?"

  
"I loved you, Sherlock. You saved me. When I was at your grave, I said I was so alone and I owe you so much. I owe you my life, you idiot."

  
"That's what you meant?"

  
"You heard me?"

  
"John, I wouldn't miss my own funeral." Sherlock ran his fingers along the scars on his shoulders, traced the ones on his stomach. His hands grabbed John's wrists and found them damaged too. He pressed his lips to the inside of the left wrist. "Are all these my fault?"

  
John pulled his arms away. "They aren't your fault. I should have coped better. People lose loved ones all the time and they don't resort to this."

"I wanted to keep you safe. I had no idea."

  
"You had no idea? _You_ had no idea?" The words were an accusation and John was beginning to feel the magic of his dream falling into a nightmare. 

Sherlock looked lost. "I don't know how I missed it. I know I'm not always the quickest when it comes to emotions, but suicidal tendencies and depression aren't easy to miss. You just always seemed so relaxed and happy."

  
"That's because you were around, you oaf. Before you were in my life I kept a gun in my desk, and not because I needed protection or as a keepsake from the bloody good time I had in the war." John spat. This was better than the other dreams. He was finally getting answers, and he was finally letting Sherlock have it for leaving him alone. _Sherlock's dead, and he left me here alone._

  
Sherlock reached out slowly to John, and pulled him into his arms. "Please don't be angry. I'm sorry."

  
John was tired of fighting, tired of being bitter. He was tired of struggling to keep a strong face when he just wanted to stay in bed all day. He was tired of trying to decipher between reality and make believe. _Sherlock is supposed to be dead._ He rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder and drifted off to sleep.

  
When he awoke the next morning, he was in Sherlock's bed, and he could smell the coffee brewing.


End file.
